


oh the stars were made for us

by WeeBeastie



Series: after all verse [10]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, old pirate husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 15:52:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11084889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeBeastie/pseuds/WeeBeastie
Summary: i used to like liquor to get me inspiredbut you look so beautiful, my new supplieri used to like smoking to stop all the thinkingbut i found a different buzz





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> LORD this one got away from me. It always happens that I mean to write some cute fluffy little thing and then it just…snowballs, and I get this.
> 
> Long story short, I mentioned a while back in another fic that my old Silver had served on Jack Sparrow’s crew for a little while, and then I decided to write about that. So this is the tale of Captain Jack Sparrow (heh), and that time he visited my old pirate husbands.
> 
> Title and lyrics in the description from “High Enough” by K.Flay because as soon as I heard it I was like that is SUCH a John Silver song, and it really is.
> 
> Thanks and hugs and kisses for Elle and El, as always. You two are so wonderful. <333
> 
> Warnings for alcohol abuse, sad angsty past Silver, the mention of his divorce from Madi, and uhh…one very annoying Disneyfied pirate. Also I haven’t seen the latest installment of that franchise and I sort of played fast and loose with his backstory. Don’t sue me Disney, he doesn’t belong to me!
> 
> Rated E for sexy sex (NOT involving Jack Sparrow, I’ll just say that now). Hey, it’s me, you all know what to expect by this point right?

Most visitors tend to arrive in the evening, or at least the afternoon. The polite thing to do is to arrive when it is most convenient for one’s hosts. This visitor, however, has the audacity to arrive at Silver and Flint’s home just as the sun is rising. Silver is already downstairs, preparing the tea, when he hears someone pounding insistently on the door.

“What the shit?” he mutters, then heaves a great sigh and makes his way to the door, flinging it open in irritation.

He's struck dumb by the person he sees there - a vision from his past, a tall and lanky fellow with deeply tanned skin, kohl-rimmed eyes, and a rat’s nest of long dark hair, half-hidden by a red bandanna and a tricorn hat. The man is swaying a little, to and fro like he's not used to being on land. Or he's drunk. Or both. Probably both.

“Captain Jack fucking Sparrow,” Silver says, agog.

“Long John fucking Silver, as I live and breathe,” the figure says back, with a knowing, gold-capped grin.

They stare at each other for a moment longer, then Sparrow pulls Silver into a fierce embrace, hugging him like to squeeze the air from his lungs. Silver laughs and hugs Sparrow in return, shaking his head in disbelief.

This is what Flint walks into, and when Silver pulls away from Sparrow, he can see Flint looking understandably confused by the proceedings.

“John, who's this?” he asks, looking Sparrow up and down. It's clear he's not impressed with what he sees, and if Silver is reading Sparrow right, neither is he.

“James, this is Captain Jack Sparrow, I was a part of his crew many years ago. Jack, this is my, ah...this is James,” Silver says, vacillating between saying ‘Flint’ or ‘McGraw’ and settling on neither. He shuts the door behind Sparrow, feeling a little dazed at the sight of him in their home.

“Ahh, so this is the man. The myth. The legend,” Sparrow says, breezing past Silver to stand too close to Flint. “Captain James Flint. Navy man turned dread pirate, pursuer of the infamous Urca de Lima gold, pilferer of enemies’ books, and of course, object of Mr. Silver’s ardent passions since he was but a lad,” Sparrow says, and Silver can feel himself blushing a deep red at that last one. 

“How does he know all that?” Flint hisses, looking sharply at Silver.

“I used to get drunk with him all the time, I can't be held responsible for telling him a thing or two while my inhibitions were not what they usually are,” Silver says with a shrug, looking helplessly at Flint.

“I do have the effect of lowering people's inhibitions, ‘tis so,” Sparrow agrees. He wheels around to regard Silver. “Clearly things must have worked out well for you with your bonny captain after all. Cheers to that. Now, on to more important business - where's your rum, love?”

“Love?” Flint echoes, his eyebrows raising nearly to his hairline.

“Just an affectation, he doesn't mean anything by it. And Jack, it's barely dawn, are you sure you wouldn't rather have tea?” Silver offers, but he's already on his way into the parlor to get Sparrow a bottle of rum.

“You know me better than that, surely,” Sparrow says. They adjourn to the kitchen, Silver fetching the tea for himself and Flint, and setting a cup of watered down rum in front of Sparrow.

Flint sits opposite Sparrow and next to Silver, one hand resting protectively on Silver’s shoulder. Silver is already very much aware that Flint is rather possessive of him, but it amuses him a little anyway.

“So, Jack...what brings you here?” Silver asks, eyeing the man as he takes a long swig of rum before replying.

“You watered that, don't think I can't tell, darling. And I'm here because I need you,” Sparrow says, and Silver feels Flint’s hand tighten a little on his shoulder. “I have decided to go on an epic adventure to find the treasure of the lost Flor de la Mar. I'm putting together a crew for said epic adventure, and I thought, who better to be my first mate than Long John Silver, aye? I know I can trust you, and you’re a great asset to any crew lucky enough to have you. So what do you say? Come on another adventure with Captain Jack, for old times’ sake.” He gives Silver a winning smile.

“While I am flattered you thought of me, that's not who I am now. I'm not Long John Silver anymore, I've retired from piracy,” Silver says resolutely, looking down into his tea and then up at Jack again. “I’m sorry, Jack. I can't go with you.”

“Now hold on, hold on. Don't be so hasty, aye? Think about it before you answer. It's the Flor de la Mar. Who wouldn't want to find a prize like her?” Jack asks, grinning again, his dark eyes gleaming with promise.

“I wouldn't. I'm telling you, I don't do that anymore and I'm not interested,” Silver says. “I was a pirate for much longer than I truly wanted to be as it is. I never really wanted to be one at all, in fact. I'm done with that life, Jack. You'll have to find someone else,” he says. He can feel Flint’s relief emanating from him.

Sparrow stands and begins wandering their kitchen, rifling through the cupboards and drawers with little regard for how obviously irritated Flint is getting with him as he does. “There’s the mistake you're making, Long John,” Sparrow says, picking up a dainty teaspoon and making a face at his upside-down reflection in it. “You can't just be done with that life. It has to be done with you, savvy?”

“It is done with me, Jack. It took my leg, twice. It took various additional parts of me, both physical and otherwise, and ultimately it took my first marriage and what should've been the prime of my life. It chewed me up, and has decisively spat me out. I'm lucky I survived it and can lead a regular, calm life now, which is all I ever wanted in the first place,” Silver says, glancing over at Flint with a little smile. Flint smiles back.

“I’m going to give you tonight to think on it,” Sparrow says, blithely ignoring everything Silver’s just told him. Typical. “In a day’s time, my ship will be ready and the rest of my crew shall be assembled, and I'll take my leave of you and your...whatever,” he says, flapping one hand dismissively in Flint’s direction.

“Husband,” Flint says icily, staring Sparrow down, giving him a look that would make lesser men quake in their boots.

Sparrow just smiles with no affection, more baring his teeth than anything else. “Married again, Long John. How wonderful. As I was saying, m’love, you've got until tomorrow to decide. I've rented meself a room at your sad little tavern, and I'll make my grand return here anon, once you've had time to come to your senses and agree to be my first mate. If you still haven't changed your mind, I'll go, and never darken your doorstep again. On my honor,” he says gallantly, setting down the delicate teacup he'd been examining closely.

“On your honor?” Flint repeats. “Because you've clearly got a whole fucking lot of that,” he deadpans.

Sparrow tenses visibly, then tips his head back to look down his nose at Flint, his eyes narrowed to black slits. “Listen here, mate,” he growls. “I can tell you don't think much of me, and that's fine, most people who don't know better are like to dismiss me out of hand as you have. But I know Long John. I knew him for a time when you didn't, savvy? And he knows me. Trusts me. I give him my word, I intend to keep it. Best not meddle in the affairs of dragons, friend. Let him make up his own mind whether or not he wants to come with me. Whether or not this is really everything he wants out of life,” Sparrow says, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings.

“Get out of my house, or you'll regret it,” Flint says warningly, rising from the table. Silver heaves himself up on his crutch, wanting to intervene before this gets any further out of hand. He's seen both these men fight; he's fought alongside them both, too. He knows how well-matched they'd be if they decided to cross swords or trade blows rather than hurl insults.

“Enough, both of you,” he barks, startling Flint and Sparrow into looking at him instead of squaring off with each other. “Jack, I'll walk you to the tavern. When I come back, James, we'll get on with our day,” he says, addressing them each in turn like a schoolmarm chastising naughty students. “Come on, Jack,” he says irritably, thumping to the front door and stepping out into the oppressive heat of the early morning, Sparrow at his side.

Silver glances over as they make their way down the dirt road together, struck by the contrast in their strides: his own off-kilter and heavy, self-conscious; Sparrow’s smooth and flowing like the sea itself, all back-and forth hips and restless, twitching fingers.

“I would apologize for ruffling your bonny captain’s feathers, but he had it coming. He's got a temper, that one,” Sparrow mutters to Silver as they walk, mercifully keeping his distinctive voice down. He can tell, surely, that Flint and Silver are living under some kind of assumed roles that are decidedly not ‘ex-dread pirate captain and his ex-pirate king husband.’

“He does, and you do, too. I never imagined the two of you would meet, truthfully, but if I'd pictured it, I could've guessed it would go about that well,” Silver says, glancing at Sparrow again. It's got to be at least fifteen years, probably more, since they've seen each other, and while Silver knows he personally looks considerably older somehow Sparrow hasn't aged a day. Damn him. “I meant what I said, Jack. I'm not going with you. It's an honor to be asked, but I like my life here very much. I have everything I want,” he says.

Sparrow pauses outside the tavern, removing his beloved hat in a grand sweeping gesture and looking down at Silver, something showing in his eyes that isn't his usual mischief. “Just think about it, aye, love? I remember who you were when I found you. What kind of state you were in, your wife all but through with you and your bonny captain gone, leaving you bereft and grieving his absence. You very nearly lost yourself for want of him.” He reaches out to rest one rough hand on Silver’s cheek for a fleeting moment. “I know you, Long John. And what I know of your Flint I don't much care for,” he says, more serious and coherent than most people ever see him. He lets his hand drop and heaves a little sigh. “Just think on it, and I'll be back tomorrow,” he says, then puts his hat squarely on his head again and disappears into de Lioncourt’s tavern with a flourish.

Silver makes the trek home alone with his thoughts, feeling like there's a storm brewing in his mind. He doesn't want to go with Sparrow, he knows that much. He also knows Flint is going to have questions about his time with Sparrow, and how well he and Silver really know each other, none of which Silver is eager to answer. On top of all that, Sparrow and Flint clearly hate each other already, and it's going to be up to Silver to keep them from killing one another or destroying the house. Just thinking about it all makes Silver tired.

He arrives home and eases the door shut quietly behind himself, murmuring to Junior when the giant dog comes to greet him. “And where were you when a mad pirate captain showed up at our door, hmm? Sleeping, I'd wager. Some guard dog you've turned out to be,” he says with affection as Junior licks his fingers.

He finds Flint in the kitchen, leaning one hip on the table with his arms folded over his chest like he's been stewing in his own thoughts, waiting for Silver to come back. “You really don't want to go with him?” he asks, expression carefully neutral.

“Christ, no. He's a madman, and more importantly, I'm done being Long John Silver. You know that,” Silver says as he sets about preparing their breakfast. He can feel Flint’s gaze on him.

“He called you Long John and you didn't correct him,” Flint points out, and he sounds suspicious, like he doesn't quite believe Silver despite the overwhelming evidence.

“He knew me when I was that person, and it seems he still thinks of me that way. Surely you can understand a figure from your past thinking of you as who you were to them then, regardless of who you might be now,” Silver says, watching his own hands as he works, instead of looking at Flint.

“I want to ask you about your time with him, but somehow I think you won't want to tell me,” Flint says, and Silver feels a flash of irritation go through him even though Flint’s right. Perhaps _because_ he's right. “All I know is that he talked you into getting that awful tattoo on your back, and his name is Jack Sparrow.”

“Captain,” Silver corrects him without even thinking about it. “Captain Jack Sparrow.”

“He doesn't have a ship, or a crew, by the sounds of things. He's captain of nothing,” Flint says irritably. “Why are you so eager to defend him? I don't know what transpired between the two of you but he obviously doesn't care much for me, which leads me to believe you've given him some reason to dislike me.”

“Nothing _transpired_ between us,” Silver says, feeling his temper starting to flare. He puts down the bunch of grapes in his hands and looks up, meeting Flint’s eyes. “And I didn't intentionally give him reason to dislike you. It was years ago and I was...I wasn't entirely in my right mind. I probably said things I shouldn't have, and did things I shouldn't have, I don't remember. But nothing like what you're implying happened between him and me, you can stop playing the jealous lover.”

“So tell me about your time with him, then. If nothing happened, you've nothing to hide,” Flint says, and Silver has to fight the urge to throw a grape at him.

“I didn't say-- look, just because I didn't fuck him doesn't mean I want to tell you all about the time I spent with him. You were correct to assume I'd rather keep that to myself. Now do you want breakfast or not? Because I've half a mind to just make you cook if you're just going to keep interrogating me while I'm trying to do it.”

“Fine, I'll stop,” Flint mutters. “But will you at least consider telling me what all happened with him? It feels as though he and I are on unequal footing; he clearly knows at least some things about you and me while I know next to nothing about you and him.”

“I...” Silver begins, then sees the raw emotion on Flint’s face and pauses, trying to collect his thoughts. He'd imagined Flint wanted to know about Sparrow because of some misguided sort of jealousy, something about not wanting Sparrow and Silver to have had experiences together that he wasn't privy to. But looking at Flint, seeing the expression on his face, he can tell that it isn't that at all - rather, as always he just wants to know Silver, to understand him more deeply. Not out of jealousy, but love. “Later,” Silver finally says, rolling his shoulders back because suddenly he feels tense. “Later tonight, I'll tell you. Everything, from the night Jack and I met to the day we parted ways.”

“Truly?” Flint asks, and the hope in his voice breaks Silver’s heart just a little. “You don't have to, John, if you don't want to. I should know better than to press you like that.”

“Truly, James. It's something you have the right to know. I've lived here with you in your house for how long, breathing scarcely a word of the time we spent apart and the man I was for all those years. You've been very patient with me,” he admits, feeling shame creep up his spine when he thinks about how sweetly understanding Flint has been of his reticence to say anything about those lost years beyond the bare minimum. “It’s past time I give you at least one story. I'll tell you the tale of Captain Jack Sparrow. Give me the day to gather my thoughts, and then I'll tell you everything.”

“Thank you,” Flint says, approaching Silver and tucking his hair behind one of his ears, smiling at him with such obvious fondness it makes Silver’s heart flutter. 

Silver feels as though he ought to say something back, perhaps thank Flint for being so patient with him, or apologize for not telling him about Sparrow sooner. Instead he leans in and kisses Flint, cradling the back of his head gently in one hand and worrying Flint’s lower lip with his teeth. When he pulls back, he keeps Flint close, pressing their foreheads lightly together.

He's not entirely sure he's ready to divulge to Flint even one piece of his regrettable Long John Silver years, but for him, for this love, he'll do it.


	2. ii

That night, following supper, Silver finds himself feeling something like dread roiling in his guts. He didn't lie to Flint; nothing truly intimate ever happened between Sparrow and himself. Still, the prospect of telling Flint, in detail, about the time he spent as part of Sparrow’s crew is making him feel shaky and queasy, like he used to during his bad years when he'd try to quit the old black rum for a day or three at a time.

They sit down together after supper in the cozy sitting room, Flint with a cup of wine and Silver with his pipe (so he's got something to do with his hands while he talks). 

“Are you ready?” Silver asks Flint, exhaling a breath of blue-gray smoke and silently willing the tobacco to soothe his nerves as it pleasantly burns in his lungs.

“Are you?” Flint responds, smiling at Silver a little. “Yes, I am. Please, tell me everything you want me to know about your time with Captain Jack Sparrow.”

“I met him one night in Port Royal,” Silver begins, “many years ago, when I was in a very low place in my life.”

 

\---

 

_Port Royal, many years ago_

Silver isn't entirely sure where he is. He thinks it's Port Royal, but it could well be anywhere else, any other port town with a filthy tavern full of lowlife criminals like himself. He's deep in his cups, having downed an unfathomable amount of rum in an effort to stave off the thoughts that trail him like a black cloud. When he's sober, he tends to be miserable, so he gets drunk too often, not that drinking makes him that much more cheerful. Madi is waiting for him at home, far away on a distant shore, but here he is drinking alone in a tavern in somewhere that might be Port Royal. More than physical distance separates them, he knows. He can see the end of their ill-fated marriage looming on the horizon, and he doesn't know if he'll ever forgive himself for being so disappointing a husband to his beautiful, brilliant queen.

As for Flint, the only other person who occupies Silver’s troubled thoughts with such frequency, who knows. He may still be in Savannah, but probably not, now that he's presumably been living with Thomas for several blissful years. They've probably moved on somewhere else, settled in a manor on the coast or a cottage somewhere in the country. Maybe they're still in the New World, or maybe they've gone back to Europe. Silver still thinks about Flint all the time, about the way things ended between them and how he never found the courage to say what he felt - how he didn't even _realize_ what he felt until it was far too late. Things might've been different, he thinks wistfully, staring down into his cup. But perhaps not. Perhaps Flint still hates him, and is so beyond happy being with Thomas he doesn't ever so much as spare a thought for Silver. It's easier to imagine things that way. Far more frightening to think that Flint has forgiven him, misses him even.

He's so lost in thought, he starts violently when he feels a hand on his arm, lurching around to see who's got the audacity to lay hands on Long John Silver when he clearly wishes to be left alone. “The fuck do you want?” he slurs, squinting up at the mystery person.

“Come with me, love,” says the person, a man, Silver can see now. A man with kohl around his eyes and a funny little braided beard, and too much jewelry.

“Not interested. In fact, just about the least interested I've been since before my balls dropped,” Silver says, shrugging the man’s hand off his arm irritably. “Fuck off. Leave me alone.”

“That is not what I'm here for, not tonight leastways. You're Long John Silver, aye?” the man asks, and either Silver is even drunker than he thought or the man is swaying back and forth, seemingly incapable of keeping still.

“I am, yes,” he says, pushing himself up to standing with great effort. In a grim twist of fate, he lost another portion of his left leg during a voyage he took shortly after marrying Madi, and these days it's even more of a challenge for him to get around than it used to be. Especially when he's drunk. “Why do you care?” 

“I need you for my crew, Long John. I'm in the business of hunting treasure, you see, but my crew at present is sorely lacking in a certain...professionalism. I'm a professional pirate, savvy?” he says, and extends a hand to Silver with a smile. He has lots of gold in his mouth. It's almost mesmerizing, how his teeth gleam in the low light of the tavern. “Captain Jack Sparrow,” he says. He signals to the bartender for another round, and the last thing Silver is really aware of, he's being dragged off into a dark corner booth with the mad captain to discuss business.

The rest of that night, Silver will never be able to recall.

He wakes up the next morning with a fierce headache, feeling the unmistakable rocking of the ocean beneath him. He's in a hammock in a berth with a multitude of other sleeping, snoring men, and he can't for the life of him figure out what ship this is or how he got here.

He lurches out of his hammock, feeling in dire need of a drink among other things, and makes his way unsteadily toward where he thinks the captain’s cabin ought to be. Mercifully he finds it, and muscles the door open without too much trouble.

“You!” he exclaims, and he'd be shouting if his head weren't throbbing quite so much. “You kidnapped me,” he accuses the man sitting at the desk, presumably the captain.

In the light of day Silver can at last get a good look at the peculiar man, and he is quite a sight. Between the bandanna, the beard, the trinkets woven into his hair, and the artfully smudgy kohl around his eyes, he looks more fop than pirate, more jester than criminal. If it weren't for the P-shaped brand he can plainly see on the back of one of his busy hands, Silver might think this man no true pirate at all, but some outlandish performer in an over-the-top costume, playing at being a pirate while having little idea what one is actually supposed to look like.

“No, love. I did no such thing. You agreed to join my crew fair and square, savvy?” the man murmurs in a rough, almost guttural sort of voice. He leans back in his chair, folding his hands delicately on the desk and scrutinizing Silver. “Are you going to get to work, then? Or have I managed to hire meself yet another useless cur for my crew?”

“What...what exactly am I supposed to be doing?” Silver asks, feeling disoriented and lost. He has absolutely no memory of agreeing to any of this, and his new captain would seem to be a madman, if his appearance is any indication.

“Cooking, primarily. Breakfast would be a start,” the man says, and gestures toward the door, flapping his hands at Silver. “Go on. Your captain has given you your orders.”

“Fine,” Silver snarls, grabbing one of the many part-empty bottles of rum off the captain’s desk. “I’m taking this with me,” he says, then speedily makes for the door before the captain - Sparrow, he thinks - can do anything about his theft.

He finds the tiny galley easily enough and manages to throw something edible together, muttering to himself all the while. He makes his way through about half the rum in the bottle, and by the time the food is finished, he's not quite drunk but at least his headache is gone.

“What ship is this?” he asks the captain when he brings him his breakfast, leaning on his crutch, the rum bottle dangling from his fingers. It's empty now, somehow, and he's got half a mind to help himself to another.

“The Black Pearl, of course,” Sparrow says, his face twitching like he's annoyed with Silver for not knowing. “She was the Wicked Wench before, you may have heard tell of her then. But alas, the Wench sank, and I with her.” He pauses to stuff Silver’s cooking into his mouth with dirty fingers. “Fortunately Davy Jones was in the mood to bargain that day, or I and my beautiful girl would still be sunk,” he says, his cheeks stuffed with food.

Silver scowls and trades the empty bottle in his hand for another of the half-full ones on Sparrow’s desk. “You can't expect me to believe that. Davy Jones is just a story they tell to scare young sailors, he isn't real.”

“Oh but I can, love, and I do, because it's the truth,” Sparrow says gravely, managing to look deadly serious in spite of his ridiculous appearance. “Now, come here and have a look at these charts, would you? I'd ask my first mate Barbossa but the fact of the matter is, I don't trust that man as far as I could throw him. He's got a whiff of the mutiny about him, that one. Besides, I know you've done quite a bit of sailing in these parts. Served as quartermaster for Captain Flint, didn't you?” he asks.

Silver feels his stomach give a frightful turn at the sound of that name, and for a moment he's certain he'll return Sparrow’s rum to him, all over the floor of his cabin. “Yes, I did. Serve under-- him, when he was alive,” he manages to say, swallowing hard and tasting bile as he moves closer to the desk and tries to focus on Sparrow’s charts. They swim in front of him, blurry.

He has kept up the ruse of Flint’s death ever since he returned him to Thomas, because it seems the only thing to do. Madi knows the truth, though it took her receiving a letter from the “dead” man in his distinctive hand to be convinced, a fact that still haunts Silver. That she could even for a brief time think him capable of murdering a man he'd been so very close to - he still doesn't want to understand it, though admittedly he does. A select few others know the truth too, but as far as the world at large is concerned, Captain Flint is dead, having died of rum in Savannah. Ironic, considering how dependent Silver himself has become on the stuff.

Sparrow scrutinizes Silver yet again, squinting at him like he's not sure he should trust him. Which is smart, because really, he shouldn't. Not yet. “Mm. Well, good, I could use another set of capable hands on my otherwise lackluster crew. I may be calling on you for more than just sustenance, Mr. Silver,” he says, then looks at him expectantly. “Well, go on. Get out now, we're finished here, love. And don't think I didn't see you stealing my rum. If I liked you any less, I'd have you kissing the gunner’s daughter for that.”

Silver just shakes his head. “Right. Good day, Captain,” he says, then takes his leave of Sparrow, still reeling from talking even briefly about Flint.

Silver’s first few months on Sparrow’s crew proceed this way: he's at least a little drunk most of the time, his dependence on the drink still too great for him to even entertain the idea of total sobriety. He does his job, and he does it well, but he can't help feeling a niggling sense of shame at just how low he's sunk, how despondent and irritable he's become in the wake of everything he's been through.

He also begins an ill-advised affair with one of Sparrow’s other crewmen, a red-haired, freckled man called Aubrey. He's not quite tall enough and his eyes are the wrong color - blue, not green - but he's a handsome man and a decent lover. He’ll do, for now. As a way to pass the time.

Sparrow clearly knows something is going on between them, because one night when he and Silver are alone in his cabin, drinking (always drinking) and going over charts, he brings it up rather bluntly.

“Good lad, that Aubrey. Don't think I haven't noticed you two, I'm not so dumb ’s I look. Fuck him all you like, Long John, but don't break him, savvy? I need him in one piece, preferably not heartsick and pining away over the likes of you,” he says, looking up from the charts to catch Silver’s gaze knowingly. “Flint was red of hair too, was he not?” he asks, trying and failing to sound casual, disinterested.

“Fuck you, Jack,” Silver spits, suddenly enraged, and throws the empty rum bottle in his hand to the floor, smashing it. He stalks out of Sparrow’s cabin, seeing red. Then he stands outside the closed door for a long moment, chest heaving, eyes burning. After, he goes to find Aubrey.

A few nights later they're in Sparrow’s cabin again, more drunk this time. They've given up the pretense of looking at charts and are sitting sprawled on the floor, passing a bottle back and forth. Sparrow also has a cigarette of something that is decidedly not tobacco, which he's been kind enough to share with Silver.

“Is that what all this is about?” Sparrow asks out of the blue, squinting at Silver, his head cocked to one side. “...you an’ Flint...?” he asks, and passes the cigarette to him, presumably so he won't leave in a rage like the last time. Smarter than he looks, Sparrow is.

Silver says nothing, gesturing abortively with one hand before focusing instead on the drug and the drink, wanting to inebriate himself to the point that he no longer feels things or cares about them. He would normally outright deny anything of the kind to Sparrow or anybody else, but he's worn out and has no energy left with which to argue. Besides, he's just so lonely. He's got Aubrey, but it's not like he can have any real conversations with the man he's just fucking as a way to pass the time. Physical loneliness is one thing - that's sated easily enough. This is something deeper, more painful, for Silver. Something he carries with him like the ache from an old wound.

“I’m sorry, love,” Sparrow says after a long moment, with real sympathy. It's one of the few conversations they have on the subject, and Sparrow drops it quickly enough, because apparently even someone like him can tell when to leave well enough alone.

They make port in Tortuga to celebrate after taking a large prize and one night Silver gets blind drunk with Sparrow, even more drunk than he should, so drunk he loses his memory of the night. Sparrow has been keeping an eye on him of late and somehow helping him stay out of too much trouble even when he drinks to excess, but he wakes up the next evening with a regrettable new tattoo anyway and no one to blame but himself. And Sparrow, a little, once he eventually admits it was his idea.

It's garish and poorly done, a skull and bones with the words ‘dead men tell no tales’ around it. He can't even really see it without Sparrow’s help, his mad captain holding up a looking glass behind him while Silver, shirtless, looks over his own shoulder at the ugly thing square in the center of his lower back.

“Why the fuck did you talk me into that, of all things?” Silver groans, turning away from the mirror in disgust. They're in a little room upstairs at the town brothel, where most of the Black Pearl’s crew has been staying the past few nights, Sparrow included. Silver hasn't taken up with any of the whores himself, but he's noticed more than one on Sparrow’s arm or in his lap on any given night, women mostly with a man or two occasionally thrown into the mix. One night, a creature so otherworldly beautiful Silver couldn't discern male or female in their body or features, just - attractive. Blindingly so. He'd asked Sparrow the next day, too curious for his own good, and the mad captain had simply rolled his shoulders in an easygoing shrug. 

“Because, Long John my darling, I thought it'd be a laugh. And ‘tis so. Ha! Ha! See?” Sparrow jokes, reaching out to brush his rough, twitchy fingers over the fresh tattoo. He puts the looking glass aside and takes Silver by the arm. “Come on, love, I'll buy you a drink to make it up to you,” he says, and Silver won't say no to that. He puts his shirt back on almost as an afterthought, and goes with Sparrow downstairs.

They spend a pleasant evening together, drinking and trading stories. Silver isn't quite sure when he went from hating Sparrow to tolerating him to actually liking him, but it isn't a bad place to be. Just as Silver is beginning to feel like perhaps things aren't so bleak as he'd once thought, the trouble starts. Of course.

One table over sits a group of rough-looking men, worse than even Silver and Sparrow. Silver can hear them talking and does his best to ignore them, which he's successful at until they start loudly disparaging dark-skinned people in general, women specifically. Then in a flash he and Sparrow are both up, brawling, throwing punches and shouting curses. 

A man comes at Silver and hurls an insult at him, something about him and Madi specifically because he's apparently recognized Silver and knows who he's married to, where she comes from and what she looks like. He calls Silver a filthy name and they tussle for a moment, then Silver feels a flash of pain in his face and thinks for a moment he's been stabbed in the eye. In truth the man has attacked his face with a broken bottle, and Silver’s blood is pouring into his eye from the cut with such alarming velocity that it's blinding him.

He becomes something else then, feeling the way he did the night he smashed Dufresne’s skull so many years ago. He's not really aware of what he does next - he's got the man’s face in his hands and is grappling with him, sitting back on the table so he can bring his one remaining knee up while he pulls the man’s face down to meet it, again and again until the man’s features are a bloody mangled mess and he's finally stopped screaming.

Then Sparrow is pushing him away, out into the night, hurrying him down to the docks and onboard the Black Pearl. When Silver comes to what's left of his senses, he's lying on his back on Sparrow’s bed, Sparrow tenderly cleaning the copious blood from his face and then threading a needle.

“Don't, please don't, Jack, I don't want stitches in my face,” Silver says, grimacing plaintively up at Sparrow. He doesn't need more pain, another scar.

“Shouldn't have let that fucking mongrel cut your pretty self open, then, my love. At least he's dead, good work,” Sparrow mutters, and braces one hand on Silver’s face to keep him still, starting to sew up the impressive gash with his other hand. “Hold bloody still and don't talk, you're going to scar bad enough as it is. You're making it worse,” he grouses at him.

“I’m sorry, but you've got a needle in my face! You'd be protesting too if our situations were reversed. Ow. Ow! Fuck, that hurts!” Tirade over, Silver does his best to keep still. When Sparrow is finished sewing him up, he heaves a great sigh and nicks a bottle of rum off the floor, handing it to Silver, who downs as much as is necessary to dull the pain. “Thank you.”

“What will your wife say, hm? She doesn't like it when you come home with new scars, you've told me so,” Sparrow says, shoving Silver over so he can lie down next to him, both of them bruised and blood-spattered, exhausted.

“I don't know, Jack. I know she won't be happy with me, but I seem to make her unhappy all the time of late, whether I'm home or not,” he says, and when he frowns he can feel his stitches pull. “I don't...think she wants to be my wife anymore,” he says carefully, then presses his lips together in a thin line. It's true, but that doesn't mean it's an easy thing to say.

“May be in your best interest - both of you - to end it, then,” Sparrow says with a surprising amount of tenderness, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at Silver. “If you're both bloody miserable, Long John, wherein lies the point of being married to each other?”

“I love her,” Silver says, swallowing hard. He doesn't want to be talking about this, not now, not with Sparrow of all people. No matter how close they've grown, he doesn't really want to discuss this aspect of his life with anyone.

“No amount of love can make somebody into somebody they're not,” Sparrow says, brushing Silver’s hair back from his face.

“I don't want her to be anybody else,” Silver says, his tongue feeling heavy and too thick in his mouth. Maybe it's the rum, or the blood loss, but he's suddenly feeling very lightheaded.

“Wasn’t talking about her, darling. Meant you,” Sparrow says, and they regard each other for a long moment before Sparrow is leaning in and Silver is pulling him close, until finally their lips meet.

Almost as soon as the kiss begins, it's over. “This is a terrible idea,” Silver whispers, struggling to focus on Sparrow’s dark, bewitching eyes this close. 

“I concur,” Sparrow says. “Not in the least because I think your wife would dispatch of me handily, but because also, regrettably, you are still lovesick over your other captain. You know the one.” He kisses Silver again, fiercely, then jerks back like he's been burned. “I know Flint isn't really dead,” he says, low and conspiratorial, almost angry. “You wouldn't be so wrecked about him if he were.” Then he rolls over and is snoring a minute later. Silver feels confused and angry and relieved at once, and drinks alone in the darkness until he finally passes out.

After he's been part of the Black Pearl’s crew for more than a year, Silver makes the decision to return home to Madi. He does so with a sense of dread and finality, because as much as he hates the sea and sailing in general, knowing he's going home to an angry wife and a dying marriage is not a thrilling prospect. He does it anyway, because it's the right thing to do.

Before he goes, he and Sparrow manage one last conversation in a brief moment alone. “Whatever happens, Long John, I have very much valued you as a member of my crew. And as my friend,” Sparrow says, then pulls Silver into an embrace, hugging him with such ferocity that he almost bowls him over. “Be careful, aye? Stay alive, I like you best that way.”

He tells himself, during the long journey back, that if Madi will stay with him, he’ll give this low, criminal life up for good. He’ll try his damnedest to shrug off the heavy mantle of Long John Silver and exorcise the ghosts of his past, and at long last he'll be the husband she deserves. Because he loves her.

Because she loves him too, when he finally arrives home she tells him that she's through, she's leaving him. He can't change her mind with all his promises of a better life, because hasn't it always been that way, hasn't he been saying that for years with little to show for it, and she goes. He's left alone with his ghosts, but somehow they're not quite as intolerable as he'd once feared. He takes to the sea again. And again, and again, trying to quell some hungry longing deep within him that he's afraid to name. He thinks of Sparrow sometimes, Madi often, and Flint every day.

Long John Silver will not be unmade for almost another dozen years after his divorce from Madi, but those are stories for another time.

 

\---

 

When Silver is finally finished with his story, it's well past midnight, creeping toward dawn. He feels completely wrung out, and if the look on Flint’s face is anything to go by, he does, too.

“I had no idea,” Flint finally says after a long silence.

“Of course not, I didn't tell you,” Silver says with a halfhearted shrug. It took so much energy to pour all of that out to Flint, he just wants to go to bed. He could sleep for days. “I was ashamed, you have to know that. I still am ashamed. I was a drunk. A murderer. An adulterer. I lived like that for so long, and why? To what end?”

“You were trying to find an escape from pain, I can understand that,” Flint argues gently, frowning. “Pain I caused you. John, I'm so sorry,” he says.

“You? You did nothing but exist, even after I told the world you were dead. How dare you,” Silver says with a crooked, weary smile.

Flint looks like he wants to say something else, to belabor his point, but mercifully he decides against it. Instead he rises to his feet with a groan, stiff from sitting for so long, and helps Silver to stand, too. He draws him into his arms, peering down at him. “I think I like Sparrow even less now that I know he's behind that wicked scar on your lovely face,” he teases him gently.

Silver laughs, startling himself. “It wasn't his fault. He did the best he could with me, truly. I owe him.”

“Come on. We are far too old to be up this late,” Flint says, keeping an arm around Silver as they retreat upstairs together. Silver has never felt so happy to see their bed.

He strips his clothes off slowly and lies down in bed, watching Flint as he undresses. The sight of him wakes Silver up more than a little, and at once he's far more interested in having Flint than going to sleep.

“Can I...?” he asks when Flint joins him in bed, reaching over to run one hand slowly up his thigh. “I know it's late but suddenly I just need you,” he says, looking into Flint’s eyes, still smoothing one hand up and down Flint’s thigh. He feels vulnerable, and he knows Flint can read it on his face.

“Absolutely, you can,” Flint says with conviction. He pulls Silver close and they kiss, and Silver lets himself get lost in the taste and feel of him.

Eventually he’s curled up behind Flint on his side, one arm draped over his waist and his chest pressed tight to Flint’s back while he fucks him deep and sweet and slow. He can't really see him in the predawn gray, the room dark with no candles lit, but he doesn't need to see when he can just feel.

He ruts into him, burying his face in his neck, feeling Flint’s breath hitching in his chest. For a few moments Silver doesn't even realize he's talking out loud, voicing his fevered thoughts, and then he hears himself. He sounds overwhelmed, in awe, to his own ears. “Oh god, oh god, oh James, I love you,” he's murmuring heatedly against his skin. “I love you, I love you,” he gasps, pleasure radiating through his body from the epicenter of him.

“I love you,” Flint replies with a soft groan as he spills over his own hand. 

Silver comes with the salt tang of Flint’s skin on his tongue and the scent of him in his nose. Flint’s hair is in his face, tickling him, but he doesn't move away. He would hold fast to Flint forever if he could. Would that he could just-- live like this, never have to be apart from him for longer than a moment.

Some hours later, as the sun is rising, Silver dozes with his head on Flint’s chest, one hand resting possessively on his leg. He starts half-awake from a bad dream, gripping Flint’s thigh. “Don’t leave.”

“Never,” Flint mumbles, smoothing one hand over Silver’s back and rubbing in wide, slow circles until Silver can feel himself easing back to sleep.


	3. iii

Mercifully, Sparrow doesn't show up at daybreak again the following day. Instead he knocks on Flint and Silver’s door right around noon, just as Silver is thinking about getting lunch on the table.

“I’ll bet that's Jack,” Silver says, loudly, over the sound of Junior’s enthusiastic barking. He goes to the front door and hauls the dog back by his collar, doing his best to put his own body between Junior and the door so he won't leap all over Sparrow and accidentally crush him in his eagerness to make friends.

The look on Sparrow’s face once Silver finally gets the door open is a sight to behold.

“Sorry about him, he just loves new people,” Silver says, muscling Junior back so he won't bowl Sparrow over. “Mind your manners, son,” he tells the dog sternly. “This was much cuter when you were small, now it's a little much.”

“I dare say that beastie is more equine than canine,” Sparrow says, eyeing Junior warily as he slips past him.

Once Silver has gotten Junior calm again, he returns to the kitchen to find Sparrow and Flint standing almost nose to nose, regarding each other with poorly concealed contempt.

“I don't like you,” Sparrow pronounces carefully, pausing between words for emphasis, his fingers twitching like he wants to prod Flint in the chest or box his ears but has so far suppressed the urge.

“I don't care for you much either,” Flint says quietly, his arms folded resolutely over his chest.

“You know what Long John was like when I found him? Half-dead, he was, dying of drink and heartache, because of you,” Sparrow says. “Because he loved you, for what reason I cannot fathom.”

“So you took him and press-ganged him into your crew? As a pirate? And gave him free access to more rum? Truly you are as daft as you look,” Flint spits.

“Stop!” Silver shouts at them, waving his arms and generally making a spectacle of himself so they'll be distracted. It works, and they both turn to stare at him. “You’re both right, and you're both wrong. Jack, yes, my love for James was part of the reason I was so miserable when you found me, but it was also my fault for not telling him, and not finding him sooner.” He meets Flint’s intense gaze. “And James, Jack might not have done everything the way you would've, but he had good intentions. He saved my life on more than one occasion.”

“I suppose you do seem much happier now, Long John,” Sparrow admits grudgingly. “But I still say you ought to come with me. What say you, my love? Ready to take to the high seas?” he asks with his most charming grin.

“No, Jack,” Silver says with a fond little smile. “I have everything I need right here,” he says, looking at Flint and drinking him in, getting lost in him for a moment.

He's brought back to reality by Sparrow sticking out his tongue and making exaggerated gagging noises. “True love. Disgusting. Well, I'm off then, and I'll miss your presence on my ship very much, my love. It won't be the same without you,” he says.

“I suppose I should thank you, for helping John when I wasn't there to,” Flint says with a noisy sigh, like it pains him to say anything even remotely nice to Sparrow. “You fucked up the stitches in his face, though. If I'd been the one sewing him up he wouldn't have scarred so.”

“I was drunk and he wouldn't shut up and hold still, it's a miracle I didn't sew his eye shut by mistake,” Sparrow deadpans. “And now I shall take my leave of you two fine gentlemen, for today I have a ship to captain and a treasure to find. My journey begins anew. Fare thee well, Long John Silver, Captain Flint. You shall always remember this as the day--”

“Bye, Jack,” Silver cuts him off, because he knows how those speeches of his tend to go on and on.

“But I wasn't--”

“Time to go,” Flint agrees, coming up behind Silver and putting his arms around his waist, hooking his chin over his shoulder and staring Sparrow down. Silver leans back against him, reveling a little in how Sparrow’s face twitches at the sight of them.

“Fine. But you haven't seen the last of me, love,” Sparrow says. He leans in close to Silver, too close, then wheels around and stalks out of their house with a flourish. The front door opens and shuts, and he's gone.

“That was...interesting,” Silver says, shaking his head and smiling ruefully. “I don't miss that life at all, and seeing him just...reminded me of that, in a way,” he says quietly.

“Mm,” Flint agrees, sounding distracted. His hands have started to roam over Silver, unfastening his belt and untucking his shirt from his trousers.

“What are you doing?” Silver asks, grinning crookedly and pressing back against Flint. “I'm trying to have a conversation with you and here you are getting me excited.” He pauses, the wheels in his mind spinning. “You didn't like how Jack was looking at me. This is your possessive side making its presence known, isn't it.”

“Mm,” Flint agrees again, his voice a low rumble. He turns Silver around in his arms and leans down to kiss him fiercely, both hands gripping Silver’s arse. When he pulls back, his face is flushed, and Silver can feel that his own is, too. 

“Upstairs?” he offers, thinking about how good it would be to return to bed.

“Here,” Flint says, pushing Silver’s shirt off over his head. He sits down in one of the kitchen chairs and takes Silver by the hand, pulling him down into his lap. “Now,” he adds, tangling one hand in Silver’s lustrous gray-streaked curls and tugging his head back to expose his throat.

Silver moans at the feel of Flint’s teeth on his neck, squirming in his lap. “James, ahh,” he whines, suddenly rock hard. He moves awkwardly in Flint’s embrace, not wanting to get up but needing to get the rest of his clothes off immediately.

Flint seems keen on helping him, fortunately, so together they manage to get Silver’s trousers and breeches off, and Flint’s open just enough for Silver to get a hand on his cock.

“I don't like that he kissed you,” Flint breathes against Silver’s ear as he gropes blindly for the oil on the table. He opens it and then Silver feels his slick fingers pressing up against him, starting to work him open.

“I think the-- _fuck_ , the case could be made that I kissed him,” Silver says, pushing back against Flint’s fingers, feeling greedy. “Besides which, it was years ago.”

“Still don't like it, love,” Flint says in an exaggerated imitation of Sparrow’s broad accent.

Silver laughs and groans, shifting to bury his face in Flint’s neck. “Fuck me,” he says against his freckled skin, jerking Flint’s cock in short, hard strokes, wanting to get him thoroughly worked up before he lets him inside. Flint responds by working his fingers deeper and faster inside Silver, cursing under his breath.

“Come here,” Flint murmurs, pulling his fingers out of Silver and taking him by the hips. Silver shifts his grip on Flint’s cock and guides him slowly inside, feeling every inch of him as he slides home. 

“Just-- ah, yeah. Like that,” Silver breathes once Flint is inside him at last. He braces his hands on Flint’s shoulders and starts riding him, writhing, the toes of his one foot curling against the floor. “I should tell you all the sordid stories about everyone I kissed before I found you again, if it makes you want to fuck like this,” he says, smirking.

Flint bucks up into him and pulls him down hard at the same time, making Silver cry out at the feel of him, hot and deep.

“There was Sparrow, of course, and Aubrey,” Silver says, because he can't help running his mouth even as he rides Flint’s cock. “And the man with the -- oh! There, _just_ like that -- with the pierced nipples,” he recounts, struggling to remember everyone through the haze of incredible pleasure. “The twins, a man and a woman,” he says, groaning as Flint starts fucking him harder, pistoning his hips. 

“Both of them at once?” Flint asks, his fingers tightening on Silver’s hips. “Oh, you're a filthy boy,” he says appreciatively. One of his hands leaves Silver’s hips and presses instead on the small of his back, bracing him so he can thrust up into him that much more forcefully.

Silver keens, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. “The gentleman from Bristol, then his lover the next day, then the both of them at once. The man in Singapore, he was so beautiful I assumed he was a woman at first. The pirate in Port Royal with one arm. His friend. The-- oh, fuck, don't stop,” he gasps, losing his train of thought as Flint fucks him like a man possessed. He's bouncing in Flint’s lap, grinding down hard against him such that he's sure he'll feel it for days.

Flint comes first, his hands gripping Silver tight and his head thrown back, his teeth bared in a snarl of ecstatic pleasure. Silver feels him pulsing inside him and that does it for him, he comes between them all over Flint’s shirt that he didn't even bother to remove. He slumps forward once he's finished, resting his head on Flint’s shoulder.

“So you don't like the thought of me with other people, but it also arouses you,” Silver says, panting, mouthing wetly at Flint’s collarbone through the material of his shirt.

“Mm. Some kind of animal instinct, I suppose,” Flint says with a groan of satisfaction, stretching his long legs out and smoothing one hand tenderly over Silver’s back. He glances down between them, then looks up at Silver, mischief in his verdant green eyes. “You've ruined my shirt...savvy?”

Silver smacks him hard in the chest, laughing despite himself. “Don’t you fucking start. Bad enough I had to listen to Jack talk like that for so long,” he says.

He carefully extricates himself from Flint with a groan and stands up, bracing himself on Flint’s shoulder since his crutch is out of reach. He can feel an ache in his lower back already from fucking Flint with such enthusiasm in a kitchen chair of all places, but he enjoys it.

“Get my crutch, would you? I can't reach it and I don't think my balance is good enough right now to let go of you,” Silver says, feeling a little embarrassed like he usually does when he has to ask for help, even from Flint.

“I’ll do you one better,” Flint says, and then he's standing up and gathering Silver in his arms, picking him up despite his protests.

“Don’t, I'm too heavy, you'll hurt yourself! We are both too old for this,” Silver says even as he puts his arms around Flint’s neck, a little thrill going through him despite what a bad idea he knows this to be.

Flint cradles him in his arms with surprising ease. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he says, carrying Silver to the staircase. He sets him down gently, and they make their way up the stairs together, Silver maneuvering himself with one hand on the bannister and the other on Flint’s shoulder.

Once they've conquered the stairs, Flint picks Silver up again like it's nothing, taking him to their bedroom and setting him tenderly in bed. He leaves the room and comes back in just his breeches, brandishing a damp cloth to clean Silver up with.

“You really shouldn't carry me around like that,” Silver says, shivering with pleasure as Flint runs the cool cloth over his sticky, sweaty skin. “I’m not that much smaller than you are, and you're, what, thirteen years my senior?”

“Twelve, and I know you know that, you insolent child,” Flint says, smacking his good leg with the wet cloth. “I won't do it all the time, I just wanted to try it the once. I could've dropped you. You should be grateful that I didn't.”

“Mm,” Silver agrees, feeling like he could use a midday nap after all that excitement. “Lie down with me,” he says, pulling Flint close. He nuzzles into his soft white hair and inhales the familiar scent of him, feeling like there's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.


End file.
